


The Intangible Things

by Aequoria



Series: Zines and Events [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Consensual Possession, Ghost Sex, Haunted Houses, M/M, Paranormal, Possession, Trans Male Character, Trans Prompto Argentum, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-03 22:24:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21186971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aequoria/pseuds/Aequoria
Summary: Prompto Argentum wouldn’t sneak into the old, abandoned house at the edge of the woods, with the broken fence and the rotting wood. He wouldn’t open the door with the well-oiled hinges to enter the master bedroom, or crawl into the bed with the fresh pale sheets.“Darling,” he wouldn’t speak into the dead of night, but that’s alright. It’s not Prompto anymore.





	The Intangible Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theorchardofbones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theorchardofbones/gifts).

> For my dear friend Mallow!! I am so embarrassed about this fic, but the idea was in my head as soon as I saw the Day 1 prompt for Halloween Week. I hope you enjoy this incredibly self-indulgent little thing!

Prompto has always been one of the nicer ones. _Good kid_ became _such a sweet boy_ became _what a lovely young man_, and by his mid-twenties he’d developed something of a reputation in his neighbourhood.

Prompto Argentum wouldn’t hurt a fly. Prompto Argentum wouldn’t lead that nice girl on. Prompto Argentum wouldn’t make old Mrs Oliver take out her own rubbish when he could do it for her.

Prompto Argentum wouldn’t sneak into the old, abandoned house at the edge of the woods, with the broken fence and the rotting wood. He wouldn’t open the door with the well-oiled hinges to enter the master bedroom, or crawl into the bed with the fresh pale sheets.

“Darling,” he wouldn’t speak into the dead of night, but that’s alright. Right now, he’s not Prompto anymore.

His lover slides inside him like the gentlest of breezes, and Prompto shivers at the familiar sensation. His arms and legs spread themselves across the cool sheets, and he smiles.

“Hello,” he greets, and closes his eyes to wait.

His hand lifts and strokes along his own cheek. Fingers trail down his neck, into the dip of his collarbones, and deftly unfasten the buttons on his top. His hand strokes down, down, brushing gently past his chest, _down_ until it reaches the edge of his jeans.

The touch is light, tentative, and Prompto grants permission by shoving his jeans and underwear down himself. It’s ungraceful and he nearly falls off the mattress kicking the heavy fabric away, and he feels a laugh bubble unbidden out of his throat.

“Ardyn,” he sighs, and the presence inside him seems to shiver in pleasure at the sound of his name.

Prompto can’t get enough of this. His lover is an ancient force, a being so strong he could level cities and raise mountains; Prompto can feel the thrum of power in his own veins, buzzing under his skin— yet Prompto can take him apart with just a word. He’s dizzy with the thrill of it, of having complete control even as he submits himself to Ardyn’s will.

His hand dips down, and his legs spread themselves wide. He catches sight of himself in the large, half-tarnished mirror across the bed, and whines high and loud. He’s so wet he must be _soaking_ the sheets beneath, but Ardyn gives him no relief. His fingers stroke the edges of his folds too softly to do anything but tease.

“Come on!” he says, and he feels Ardyn’s amusement in his own mind. “Now you’re just being rude.”

As if in answer, his other hand comes up to play with his chest. The other continues to tease until Prompto thinks he might go mad with it.

(His lover can do anything but bear a physical form. When Ardyn had told him this, insubstantial and weak outside of a host body, Prompto had simply shrugged and said, “Well, nobody’s perfect.”

Ardyn has loved him ever since. Prompto has never looked back.)

Finally, _finally_, the tip of a finger circles around the rim of his hole, and Prompto cries out when it pushes in completely.

One becomes two; two becomes three. He can feel his own warmth, his own wetness on his fingers, just as he feels the pleasure of of the intrusion— there’s another gentle nudge at his consciousness, and Prompto gives himself completely away.

Ardyn fucks him hard and desperate, and Prompto can do nothing but let him. His mouth falls open and high whines and moans escape him— though which noises are his and which are his lover’s, he could not say. His fingers curl themselves inside him, brush against something that makes him see stars.

Ardyn plays his body like an instrument, like a game. Prompto can feel everything he does to him and loves it. He loses all thought of time. Perhaps Ardyn has him for hours; perhaps only minutes. By the end of it, Prompto is exhausted but deeply satisfied, and in the back of his mind is a rumbling purr telling him just how much Ardyn loved it too.

“I love you,” they both say, and Prompto smothers a laugh in the pillow.

When Ardyn slides out of him, it’s as though he’s left an emptiness, body and soul. He’s no longer visible, but the air in front of Prompto is cold and strange; he is still here.

He’d told Prompto what he used to look like, once. Prompto imagines he can make out the striking features, his wild hair and sharp eyes. He smiles at the thought. The mental image goes well with the kind of person that Ardyn is.

Cold air swishes against his cheek— their version of a kiss. Prompto feels his heart beat faster with emotions he can tell aren’t fully his. Impressions of love, of affection and gratitude: these are the connections they share, the things they thirst for like wanderers in the desert.

This has been life’s one kindness to poor abandoned souls, that they find each other in their wanderings. There is no distance between them, not even the barrier of skin and bone to keep them apart. They fill and surround each other until their breaths, their heartbeats, their voices are shared— Prompto will never need anything else.

_Darling,_ speaks Ardyn, in that funny, voiceless way of his that seems to resonate in Prompto’s very soul. _Tell me about your day._

Prompto, as ever, obliges.

(Prompto has always been one of the nicer ones. _Good kid_ became _such a sweet boy_ became _what a lovely young man_, and by his mid-twenties he’d developed something of a reputation in his neighbourhood.

He’ll do odd jobs for his elderly neighbours at no charge, will have a kind word for everyone he meets, and will go home to an empty house when night falls. His smiles are all gentle and distant, ever since his parents left him over a decade ago. Prompto Argentum is sweet but strange, and never really managed to make friends the way the others did.

“Hello,” he’d said to the lonely spirit in the abandoned house, but that’s alright. He won’t be alone anymore.)


End file.
